


Be Still, My Tongue

by SilverScriptings



Series: To Die For [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sad and Beautiful, Sex, Slow Build, Thorin is a Softie, not the happiest of endings but still happier then what actually happens, slow, thorin is intense at times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25299139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverScriptings/pseuds/SilverScriptings
Summary: Years after Bilbo's adventure, a familiar stranger shows up in the Shire when he was supposed to have died at The Battle of Five Armies.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: To Die For [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1834396
Comments: 45
Kudos: 169





	Be Still, My Tongue

Bilbo gripped the shoulder straps of his pack to adjust it more securely on his back and hitched it further up. The sun was setting, casting light rose colors over the hills and onto the path at his feet. If he hurried, he would make it home by the time the lightning bugs started their nightly show. He may even have time for a cup of tea before turning down for the night.

He missed his own hearth and his favorite mug. There was also a trunkful of new maps that were waiting for him back at Bag End. So despite the positively lovely visit with Drogo in Buckland, he was looking forward to a quiet evening at home to study them.

There weren't many relatives who he'd be willing to stay with for an extended period, but Drogo and his lovely new wife were two of his favorites. Drogo had a hint of that adventurer spirit and Primula even more so. They indulged Bilbo and his stories in an honest way that few other Hobbits did.

But he knew he'd outstayed his welcome when he stumbled upon something secretive and sorrowful that the two had apparently been trying to keep hidden from him. Neither Drogo nor Primula said so explicitly, but their stunted conversation around neighbors with new babes told Bilbo all he needed to know. He even noticed a back room where a nursery was started and abruptly abandoned. Bilbo could only assume his family had almost been blessed with children before some tragedy struck. 

He hoped they were blessed with a little one soon. The Baggins' family tree needed more offshoots from good, bold hobbits like Drogo and Primula.

"Oy, Mr. Baggins!" a voice welcomed him as he passed by.

"Good evening, Mr. Bolger," Bilbo nodded his head and increased his pace just enough to scurry swiftly by but not enough to be noticeable.

"Expecting company, Mr. Baggins?"

Bilbo was at the hobbit's red-painted gate when the absurdity of the question hit him.

"Heavens, no!" Bilbo said with equal parts confusion and amusement. "I'm just coming back from Buckland." Bilbo didn't think to ask about the silly question, just assumed it was something that came with his neighbors.

"Are you sure? There've been reports of some strange folk about, presumably looking for you."

Bilbo had already passed the hobbits gate and was looking forward to turning the bend; however, that last comment stopped him. He turned, finding the hobbit with his elbows on the top of his gate and leaning over it, watching him with a keen eye.

Perhaps Bilbo judged his neighbors too harshly and unkindly.

"Strange folk?" Bilbo asked.

"Aye, Mr. Proudfoot caught sight of a large fella, not one of those big folk but large non-the-less. Said he may be a dwarf. Had a look in his eye that put him off."

A dwarf— Balin perhaps? It had been a little over a year since his last visit from one of his old traveling companions. Perhaps too long, Bilbo worried about them. Balin in particular. The old dwarf had talked of nothing else than Moria and the lost treasures within. He even hinted at employing their lucky old burglar but didn't explicitly ask him last time they talked over tea.

Was Balin back to recruiting again?

"Friend of yours, eh?" his curious neighbor pushed. Bilbo shook his head and met the other hobbit's eye. He wondered briefly what the perceiving stare of the other hobbit saw in him. Old cracking Baggins and his carnival of odd guests making Hobbiton unpredictable and possibly unsafe.

"Not every stranger in the Shire winds up at Bag End, Mr. Bolger," Bilbo tried to defend himself from the quiet accusation.

He turned but found curiosity kept his bare feet still." Did Mister Proudfoot get a clear look at him, the dwarf?"

It wouldn't necessarily be out of the ordinary for his old companions to drop in, but perhaps he could prepare for their arrival more accurately if he knew who was coming to call for Bilbo. Whether he needed to make a midnight meal, pull out the ale, or just put on an extra bit in the kettle.

"Dark, he said. Dark hair and beard. Had a look about him as if he were someone important or thought himself rather important."

A cold chill ran down his spine at the description. A deep foreboding that he couldn't place or fully understand. He shook his head and searched his memory, going through each of his old friends one by one in his mind's eyes. 

Of all the dwarves, the one who always had a 'rather important' look about him had been Thorin. The dwarf stood out in a crowd, a kingly presence that made him seem much broader and taller than he really had been. Even a humble hobbit could tell that he was a supremely significant dwarf just by looking at him.

He _had_ been.

Bolger cleared his throat, reminding Bilbo once again that he was being watched.

Bilbo tipped his hat and said as a definite goodbye, "Let's hope they don't come calling for me, it's a little late for company and conversation."

Bilbo turned and hurried down the road, the splash of pink dawn almost completely gone, making way for a navy night. The sour implications in that conversation put him in a grim mood. Or maybe it was the sharp reminder of Thorin that unsettled him. Regardless, Bilbo didn't feel like entertaining any dwarves or even acknowledging the various 'good evening, Mr. Baggins' that came floating his way. He only nodded and quickened his steps until he caught sight of Bag End at the top of the hill. He hadn't seen anyone out of the ordinary on the road, let alone some pompous dwarf. Perhaps his neighbors were having a go at the 'quack Baggins.'

It honestly seemed like the more appealing eventuality.

As he ascended to his home, the odd feeling crept over him again, slowing his steps. His eyes darted up toward his green door and then back down the road he'd just come from. The dusk had fully settled, painting everything in deep blues and greens. The lights from Bag End weren't lit since Hamfest had no notion of his return. He turned fully, trying to determine the source of his sudden apprehension. He noted the distance sounds of his neighbors closing gates and calling in dogs for the evening, nothing overtly out of the ordinary. A cold chill from the night air caused him to shiver.

Bilbo reached into his coat pocket, running his index finger over the enchanted gold ring within. The option of slipping it onto his finger and then darting to Bag End gave him some relief and enough encouragement to continue towards the gate that led to his home. He opened it swiftly, locking it as if that short and feeble gate had any actual defense.

Bilbo looked back down the road and then across the fields from Bag End. He froze. There, some ways away stood a familiar silhouette. No one would mistake the individual for a hobbit, not with the broad shoulders and wide bulk about him. The stranger was most decidedly a dwarf, but the specific familiarity of the dwarf struck Bilbo to his very bones. If he didn't know any better, he would think he was observing his old friend Thorin. 

"Thorin?" Bilbo whispered to himself. But saying the impossibility aloud only deepened his fear. He turned and bolted to the door of Bag End, quickly prying it open and scrambling inside. He locked it before pressing his back against the door and trying to catch his breath.

"I'm seeing things. I've truly cracked," Bilbo whispered to himself as he sank to the floor. He cycled through the various reasons for his mind to conjure up a vision of Thorin.

There was no possible way he'd just seen the long-deceased king of Erebor. Talk of the dwarf earlier in the night only brought him to the forefront of Bilbo's mind. And the eerie chill of the night brought out his own inner ghosts and scattered them across the Hobbiton landscape.

Perhaps the visit to Drogo's home reminded him of his long journey with the dwarvish company. The few days trek to Buckland was nothing compared to the weeks of travel and toil with Thorin and company, but it had been a while since he'd gotten out his pack and set out.

"Yes," he muttered to himself, "The road made me nostalgic, yes," Bilbo nodded quickly as the excuse took root in his mind.

"Too much travel," Bilbo said assuredly as he stood, "Or, not enough." Bilbo shrugged off his pack, placed his walking staff securely by the door, and neatly hung up his jacket. "Perhaps I should plan a trip soon to Rivendell if they'll have me. Yes! Time away from Bag End—."

Bilbo continued to add to his inner justifications as he went about tidying up Bag End. He lingered by his tea kettle, considering how the lure of an evening cup had quickened his steps earlier. But now, the temptation of bed and dawn seemed all the stronger. The promise of morning light to drive away the shadows.

\---

Bilbo found that sleep wasn't the cure-all he'd hoped for. Rest came in small spurts and with dark dreams of stone halls going deep into the ground with no promise of return. He lay in bed, staring at the sunlight pouring through his window and listening to Hamfest rustling outside. He considered turning over and trying again for some rest and peaceful dreams, but a shadow from the window sobered him up. If Hamfast was up and working, the least Bilbo Baggins could do is get his own breakfast ready. 

Bilbo slipped on his morning robe and made his way into the kitchen. Toast with apricot jam and the last of the bacon and tomatoes sounded like the ideal way to start his morning. He started a kettle as he began searching for the needed ingredients.

Ten minutes later found Bilbo muttering angrily at himself for forgetting to bring home some decent meat. He'd have to run down to the market if he was going to have a proper lunch. Bilbo was pouring his tea when a few puffs of smoke drifted past the kitchen window. He frowned. The Gaffer wouldn't have stopped mid-morning to enjoy his pipe— he wouldn't even be caught with his pipe around Bag End unless Bilbo insisted that he join him for an afternoon smoke and a discussion on daffodils.

Bilbo continued to frown as the white cloud grew in size. He only moved when the hot water in his cup overflowed, splashing on his table and onto his hand. He cursed as he searched for a towel to mop up his mess. Bilbo shook his hand to try and dispel the pain but pulled the mug of tea to his lips all the same. As he delicately sipped at the tea, he shouldered over to the parlor window and peeked outside at the morning smoke rings' creator.

The mug slipped from his hands as Bilbo's eyes tried to make sense of what he saw outside. Sitting comfortably in Bilbo's favorite seat by the fence was Thorin Oakenshield casually smoking a pipe. 

The tea splashed at his feet with some larger drops spraying across his shins, but he paid it no mind as he stared at the morning manifestation of his dark vision. Bilbo leaned further out the window, not believing his eyes. But the stranger was too big to be a hobbit, too small to be a wizard, and too regal to be anyone else but Thorin.

"Who are you?" Bilbo squeaked from his window.

The stranger with a familiar face moved his head marginally towards him. From this distance, Bilbo couldn't make out the details of the dwarf's expression, but he could tell that he'd gotten his attention.

Three puffs of smoke were his only reply.

"I said, who are you?" Bilbo tried to conjure up some authority in his tone, but the quiver in his words betrayed him.

"Has it really been so many years, Master Baggins that you don't remember me? Or perhaps your eyes have weakened with age."

Bilbo bristled in annoyance, "What _devilry—_ "

Bilbo glared down at the desk that prevented him from completely hanging out the window. In defiance, not considering how preposterous he may appear, he climbed up the desk to get a better view out the window.

"I'll have you know," Bilbo said as he scooted up the desk on his knees and hung out the window. "That I appear remarkably unchanged these past twenty years!"

The stranger pulled his pipe from his mouth and rested it upon his knee. Bilbo could see that the dwarf was regarding him quietly. At that moment, Bilbo was hyper-aware of his appearance: still in his morning robe, on top of his desk and hanging out the window before he'd even enjoyed his morning cup of tea.

"Indeed. You don't appear changed at all."

That voice. He knew that voice. He'd heard it in Bag End, on the open road, and in deep stone caverns. Bilbo would know it anywhere.

"You speak, good sir, as if you know me. When, in fact, I know no one living with your appearance. You're trespassing on my property and parading around with a face that belongs to a dead dwarf."

"I am neither parading nor have I taken another's face," the dwarf gave the slightest of nods as he lifted his pipe back to his lips, "whether or not I am actually dead remains to be seen."

"Why are you haunting the Shire? And in broad daylight?"

The stranger's face seemed to acquire more shadows at that question. Clearly, he didn't want to answer that inquiry.

"I ask again, who are you?"

The dwarf shifted in the seat, the carved wood creaking under the weight. "You know who I am, Master Burglar. Now, will you invite me in or leave a friend at the door?"

Bilbo strained his eyes, trying to determine the mirage's faults, but all that remained was the living vision of a long-dead king, casually smoking in the cheery sunlight. And it made no logical sense to him.

"No! Whatever falsehood conjured you up, I don't want any part of it." Bilbo grabbed the window to pull it shut but hesitated a moment, taking in the sight of his friend, even if he wasn't real. He then frowned and shut the window, locking it. He scooted back off the desk, landing awkwardly on his feet.

Bilbo tried focusing on his hands, noting the shudder that overtook them and his heart beating wildly in his chest. He closed his eyes and drew in a long, deep breath before grabbing at the sash from his robe and tying it tightly. He returned to his half abandoned breakfast but found that he couldn't stomach it as the billows of pipe smoke still drifted outside his window.

\---

Bilbo couldn't do much of anything other than pace from room to room. In the end, he decided he must leave. He had intended to visit the market that afternoon. He needed to do something productive to get his mind out of the past.

He put on one of his finer vests and the lovely light blue jacket before slinging a bag over his shoulder. He put his hand on the knob but quickly backed away. He returned to his bedroom to fetch that handy magic ring and put it in his pocket. Bilbo briefly contemplated putting it on and exiting out a different door in Bag End but dismissed the notion after considering it an overreaction and, dare he think it, cowardly.

He wasn't afraid to stand up to Thorin Oakenshield, whether he was real or a shadow, alive or dead.

Bilbo returned to the door and opened it wide. As his eyes fell on the still present ghost of Thorin, he immediately wished he'd slipped the ring on as an unknown fear rushed through his chest. The stranger stood with his back to Bag End, his hands on hips as he looked out across the Shire.

Bilbo felt as if his feet had fused to the tile. The involuntary hesitancy gave him a moment to observe the hallucination more clearly. Bilbo noted the lack of Erebor finery. The last time Bilbo laid eyes on the dwarf, he was in a tomb, dressed in layers of kingly fashions and glittering jewels. This individual wore only a light white tunic, a humble blue jacket with fur on the collar, the smallest of travel bags, and dark brown britches. Bilbo noted no weapon or armor, nothing to suggest that he was a king or that he'd traveled far distances to be here.

Thorin turned, looking down his nose at Bilbo. He said nothing, presumably waiting for Bilbo. This close to the stranger, Bilbo could make out the color of his eyes— blue. Blue and bright but shadowed under a strong brow that was often pulled tightly as he brooded.

Bilbo swallowed dryly but took those difficult steps forward, closing the green door behind him. He tilted his head up to meet the gaze of the dwarf as he approached him. For a moment, they stood side by side regarding the other with differing levels of apprehension.

"You're not real," Bilbo told the mirage dumbly. The statement elicited no reaction. "I'm going to the market."

Bilbo took two steps forward when the others' deep, commanding, and admonishing voice stilled him.

"If I'm just a vision of your conjuring, hobbit—"

Bilbo shivered at the sharpness of that one word.

"—then certainly no one else would witness me," Thorin stated.

Bilbo didn't answer. He merely waited for silence to settle and for him to be released from the spell in the dwarf's voice. Bilbo finally trudged forward, opening his gate quickly and trying to refrain from running down the road. To his dismay, he heard a delay in the gate hitting the pole behind him, meaning his companion had followed him.

Bilbo heard the heavier footsteps echo behind him. A spirit wouldn't manifest in broad daylight, and it certainly wouldn't follow him to the butchers in the early afternoon, would it?

On the road, he nodded politely to Mr. Chubb as their paths crossed. Bilbo couldn't help but notice the double 'good afternoon' Chubb gave in his direction. The odd looks from the next two hobbits he passed almost entirely debunked Bilbo's previous theory. As they entered the market, the greetings and puzzled looks increased. The befuddlement in his neighbors' eyes was the sort directed at non-hobbit folk; Not the kind of scrutiny that comes when you see a ghost among you.

Bilbo determinedly approached the butcher who greeted Bilbo warmly, "What will you and your friend have today, Mr. Baggins?"

"My friend—" Bilbo turned to see Thorin a few paces behind him, regarding a table with various small tools. The vendor noticed the dwarf's interest and started to inquire about his level of experience with blacksmithing tools.

Bilbo leaned forward, "You can see him?" He whispered to the butcher. Confused, the other hobbit looked behind him and then back to Bilbo twice before nodding. "Yes, Mr. Baggins. One of your colorful friends, I presume?"

"What? No, no, no," Bilbo turned to see Thorin at the mercy of two other hobbits and their trifling conversation, further proving that this hallucination was no hallucination at all. The dwarf, while still aloof, gave the two curious hobbits a nod or two before sharply shifting his eyes to Bilbo. A smile touched the corner of his mouth as their eyes met; a fondness Bilbo saw there with perhaps a little too mischievousness as if to say 'see I am real'.

"I mean, yes. Uh— Did you have any bacon and, actually," Bilbo remembered how much a dwarf could usually eat, "I'll take whatever all you can fit in this bag."

"Mr. Baggins! Will your dwarf friend be here for long? I've a need for a master metalworker's handiwork, and I hear dwarves are talented folk in that area." Bilbo sighed loudly as he took his now abundantly full bag from the butcher and slung it across his body.

While he thought that half of his neighbors were insufferable and dull in their meddling ways, they couldn't all be losing their minds. And they all, very clearly, saw the dwarf. Bilbo turned and hurriedly started to retrace his steps. He saw Thorin nodding politely to the various hobbits who'd started a conversation with him before falling in step beside him. They walked in relative silence till they were out of earshot of anyone.

"It appears that I am, in fact, real to everyone but you, Mr. Baggins."

Suspicion, anger, doubt all washed away as the two climbed the gradual steep up to Bag End. It had been easier to process these emotions versus the depth of grief that Bilbo had to associate with thoughts of Thorin. Simpler to fuss at the shadow with his friend's face, knowing that it would fade away once reason set it.

But the dwarf was real. Thorin was real. Bilbo felt as if his stomach was plummeting to the road as the new wave of feelings filled him to the brim; sadness, relief, confusion, and harsher, more raw kind of anger.

Bilbo sniffed and blinked quickly to ward off the tears that threatened to fall. He kicked at an acorn in the road, watching it bounce off a tree and roll away. He'd already cried enough tears for the stubborn dwarf.

Bilbo quickened his steps to reach the gate and then the door first. He turned to face the stranger, no— his friend. Thorin stood at the bottom of the few steps leading to the green door. Bilbo's position allowing him to look down on the other. He found Thorin's eyes and held his gaze for the longest since his return. Bilbo nodded a small sign of resignation, before turning the knob and leaving the door wide open behind him.

Bilbo made him a hearty dinner. He busied himself with roasting the fish just right and cooking his finest potatoes. Bilbo even baked a loaf of honey bread for his guest and found that jar of strawberry jam that was the pride of Buckland. He set the table out with his mother's most exquisite plates and poured a fresh cup of tea.

Bilbo busied himself so he wouldn't have to openly interrogate the king or to avoid bursting into frustrated tears in Thorin's presence. Thorin sat in Bilbo's seat by the hearth, staring at the dead ashes. He appeared content with the avoidant busyness of the hobbit and his own quiet fortitude.

Several minutes later, they both sat at the kitchen table, avoiding each other's eyes. Thorin hesitantly examined the meal, and Bilbo clutched a cup of tea close to his chest, staring out the kitchen window.

"Thank you, Bilbo," Thorin's voice seemed to bounce off the curved walls of Bag End and multiply. Bilbo jumped at the magnified sound, sloshing his tea but not soiling his green vest.

Bilbo looked from the dwarf to the picked at meal and then back again. The piercing blue of his companion's eyes told him that he wasn't just thanking him for dinner. The corner of Bilbo's mouth turned up in an unsure smile.

"You're welcome, Thorin."

  
  


\---

In the days that followed, the hobbit and dwarf fell into a quiet routine. Bilbo gave him one of the larger guest rooms and three or four meals a day, which he gradually increased in size due to Thorin's growing appetite. In the mornings' Thorin would sit in the kitchen until Bilbo finished breakfast and then would sit in the parlor (after Bilbo procured a more suitable seat for his guest so he wouldn't stretch out Bilbo's armchair) or outside till dusk. He'd then relocate his thoughtful smoking to the fireplace till it became clear that Bilbo was about to retire to his chambers. Then Thorin would retreat into his own.

Conversation between them had all but stopped if anyone could call their communication' conversations' in those first weeks. After that initial day, the only words exchanged between the two were short sentences having to do with dinner and breakfast prefaces. 

This new silence between them was something foreign and uncomfortable. Not like their time together in the wild. Bilbo and Thorin often found themself pleasantly side by side in the quiet during the night watches or over a quick lunch. There was a level of amenity and familiarity between them that he never gave much thought to due to the important journey. The threat of a raid or the urgency of the quest drummed loudly in the cornerstone of everyone's mind-- drowning out all other thoughts and feelings and emotions that may have been present at that time.

But not so here. Not in the reticent walls of Bilbo's home. The quiet atmosphere of Bag End only drew more attention to his inner speculations. Thoughts of Thorin, his new miraculous existence, their troubled parting, and everything left unsaid between them was stirring in his mind, over and over, getting louder as the days continued. He predominately stewed on the underlying sentiment for the dwarf. 

Occasionally, the hair at the back of his neck would prickle, and he would look up from his tea, his book, his garden and find Thorin's eyes, shadowed by thick brows staring at him in a manner that wasn't altogether unpleasant but didn't put him at ease either.

As the days drew on, Bilbo started to sit with him outside and would always join him by the fireplace with a book or his own empty pages to fill. Thorin stared forward into nothing as if he were considering a puzzle or a riddle, always contemplating and never sharing. Bilbo wondered how Thorin could stand it. How the dwarf could bear his own internal thoughts without any sort of distraction. Bilbo considered what he could be thinking about. What memories he pondered...

Bilbo found it challenging to understand Thorin in this new context. Not necessarily the living versus dead paradox but in this domestic setting. Yes, he first met the dwarf right inside his green door, but he didn't become friends with him in Bag End. He didn't risk his life for the other by the humble glow of Bilbo's family hearth, but rather in the wild's harsh backdrop. Their bond grew on the dangerously winding roads of Mirkwood and in the endless majesty of Erebor amidst dragon fire.

Thus, Bilbo saw this extra layer of newness as another barrier between them. The Thorin in his memories was decisive and rude, determined and brave, stubborn, and strong. The domestic side of him wasn't something he'd experienced. Even in Erebor, Thorin's ancestral home, he wore a crown and prepared for war.

In Bag End, he prepared for afternoon tea with Bilbo. The contrast was stark, setting Bilbo on edge. Bilbo, quite ironically, found himself wishing they were on the road again. 

\---

He sat up abruptly in bed, gasping for breath and understanding. He scanned the room desperately for something familiar. But the darkness that came with living under a mountain painted everything in the darkest shades of black and grey. He reached around him, noting the bed's vast size and the silken fabric that lay under his hand.

He pulled his hand back, the new information not putting him at ease. He didn't go to sleep in a bed so large, nor did he indulge in such extravagant blankets and sheets. And how did he know he was under a mountain…

He was about to crawl out of the center of the bed and to the edge when he heard the sound of shouts followed closely by the unmistakable noise of several individuals running down stone halls.

Finally, he saw a light from what he determined to be an open door—flickering candlelight from those who now ran past the room.

They were dwarves; dwarves dressed for battle.

Bilbo sat up again, but this time in his actual bed chambers. The dull grey light spilling through his window told him that morning was near. The autumn songbirds were beginning their morning performance.

He was far away from dark stone caverns and calls to war...

However, the distinct sound of very real footsteps pacing the hall outside his bedroom reminded him that he wasn't very far from dwarves. Bilbo stilled his breath to be certain he was hearing correctly and not just imagining details from his dream. If it had been a hobbit outside his door, he wouldn't have heard the steps. But the weight of the footsteps were unmistakably dwarfish in nature.

\---

Bilbo had refrained from questioning Thorin for those first days together. Partly out of respect and partly out of fear. He, perhaps quite foolishly, trusted that Thorin would explain everything to him in time. Something as remarkable as coming back from one's grave was sure to be the number one topic.

But no explanation came. Not the smallest of comments to express the peculiarity of the situation. No story of whether Thorin had been alive these many years or if he just awoke. No reason for why he chose to come to Bag End and not to his kin in the mountain. No hint on how long he was planning to stay with Bilbo.

_Nothing_. 

However, the question of Thorin's early morning stroll through Bag End seemed a much safer conversation. Either that or Bilbo's impatience with the stoic dwarf had been tipped off due to the peculiarity of the offense.

"Was it you outside my door this morning?" Bilbo asked as he finished off the eggs on his plate.

Thorin's dark eyes shifted to Bilbo, regarding him through his bushy brows. He didn't bother to hide his annoyance at the apparent answer to his question, and the annoyed glance was the only response Bilbo got. Thorin took the last bite of ham and stood to leave.

Bilbo watched him go with growing unease. The trip to the market proved that this person was real and witnessed by others. Thorin was not a conjuring of Bilbo's own mind or a spirit unearthed from his past. He was real.

But was he indeed Thorin— unchanged from their time together?

The remembrance of Thorin succumbing to dragon sickness made Bilbo shiver. He'd seen Thorin yield to illness and darkness once before. Although always thoughtful and severe, his eyes took on a dominance and desperation during that time under the mountain. He could hardly recognize him.

So what was this Thorin like, post-death? Quiet. Avoidant. Seemingly impatient. All attributes that his travel companion always possessed. 

But this new development, walking the dark halls at night for no apparent reason. That unsettled Bilbo.

\---

One attribute that remained a constant from Bilbo's memories was the brooding silence. If words were passed between them, they were usually started by Bilbo. Thorin's continual dodging of his questions started to grate on his nerves. This irritation easily spilled over into other areas of annoyance.

"We're not on the road, Thorin. Would you please put on some fresh clothing," Bilbo griped shortly after second breakfast on their second or third week of co-existing together.

Thorin lifted his sleeves as if seeing them for the first time.

"And put on what, Master Baggins? I doubt I could fit into anything so dainty as your wardrobe."

Bilbo looked adequately shocked at the audacity of being called 'dainty.' He opened his mouth, ready to defend his status as a healthy hobbit, but then thought better of it. He frowned deeply and sized up the dwarf as he tapped on the lip of his half-empty teacup.

"Quite right, I guess I could go down to the market," he shifted his attention to the window, noting the grey storm clouds rolling in. "I know some tailors who could have something that may work. Or maybe the Brandybucks would have something designed for bigger folk that I could take and rework for you. Regardless, it'll take some time and effort so you should—"

He looked back but saw no dwarf waiting for him to finish.

"—Thank me," Bilbo sighed.

Bilbo made a couple of special trips to the market, searching for new tunics and britches for Thorin. This proved to be difficult due to the dwarf's broader shoulder and genera stocky built. Most of the larger garments for hobbits made room for more meals, not so much more shoulder room. But after discussing his predicament with several merchants, he was able to procure some sufficient pieces. 

He rushed home in a downpour, hoping to avoid getting his precious new packages damp. He was successful but to his own detriment. Bilbo had to completely change out of his half soaked clothing before turning his attention to the project at hand. He spent the rest of the afternoon using his own skill with the thread and needle to adapt a few larger tunics he'd acquired at the market.

He did so with a fair amount of low grumbling on his part. It seemed that the downpour had moved off quickly once he was inside, which allowed his companion to sit outside and enjoy the afterglow of the rainfall with a pipe full of Bilbo's best. He'

When he went to lay them out in Thorin's designated room, he found that the bed hardly seemed touched, as if no one had been sleeping in it. Bilbo's fingers brushed the quilt on the mattress, considering this. He lingered in the room, looking for anything that could give him a clue to Thorin's situation. He recalled the lack of travel gear on the dwarf when he first arrived, but that didn't mean that the small pouch was devoid of important objects. Bilbo circled the bed, casually searching for anything that didn't belong to Bag End.

Something bright caught his eye on the floor by the nightstand. Bilbo crouched to inspect but only found a stray spoon, one of his own. As he turned the utensil over to inspect it, a sudden foreboding made the hair on his arms stand up. Bilbo looked behind him to see Thorin at the door. He immediately stood and took a step away from the corner. A bright flush spread over his face and neck as being caught snooping.

"I uh—"Bilbo fumbled for anything to excuse his presence here. He remembered the true reason he was here, "Oh, yes. I brought you a couple of changes of clothes. So you don't have to wander my halls in naught but your skin while I wash those." Bilbo nodded to his lightly soiled tunic.

Something about his excuse only caused his blush to brighten.

Thorin continued to stare at him, face decidedly blank of any recognizable emotion. He entered the room standing at the foot of his bed, eyes still fixed on Bilbo. He then turned his back to the hobbit before peeling off his tunic. Briefly, Bilbo saw the many white crisscrossed scars that decorated the dwarfs back. The sheer number of them astounded him.

Embarrassment soon returned when he realized that Thorin was essentially disrobing with him present. "I'll— I'll just," Bilbo stuttered as he rushed for the door. "Bring them all out when you're finished."

\---

Later, after new changes of clothing and supper had been consumed, they resumed their nightly tradition by the fire. Bilbo was deeply engrossed in a book of elvish songs translated and transcribed by men. Bilbo had acquired it when he was last in Bree. He had his doubts on the legitimacy of the book or the bard/author's ability to accurately translate.

Still, it was an excellent lesson in the way languages intersected with all the races. And he was able to cross-reference some of the songs with an actual book he'd gotten from Elrond a few years prior.

Bilbo muttered a few words in Elvish under his breath as he tried to compare the language in his head.

"Do you always waste your evenings looking over Elvish rubbish?"

The voice was so unexpected and loud that Bilbo startled in his seat. Bilbo's eyebrows ascended his brow as he shifted his attention from the script on the pages to the haughty dwarf, now glaring at him and puffing angrily at his pipe.

Bilbo sat up straight and shut the book with a quick whip of his wrist.

"Rubbish?"

Thorin pulled his pipe from the corner of his mouth. "Yes, rubbish. You've been on those two books for the past week. And they're just silly songs about absolutely nothing."

Bilbo frowned deeply and wondered if an actively talking Thorin was actually better than the sullen, moody, quiet one. 

"Now, now, I'll have you know that the first song had to do with an important historical event.," At least that's what Bilbo thought it was about.

Thorin tilted his head down toward the stack of books beside Bilbo as an openly distasteful expression spread across his features.

"Didn't Balin send you home with anything from Erebor's libraries?"

Bilbo recalled the dusty libraries with sudden regret. He'd been right there with Balin among such a great wealth of history and knowledge, and he didn't even think to ask for something to take home. At the time, there were more pressing matters—specifically, a gold-crazed dwarf-lord on the brink of insanity due to missing Heart of the Mountain.

Bilbo swallowed back that memory.

"Unfortunately not."

Thorin shook his head and reached beside him to pull up the half-empty glass of wine. He gently swished the red liquid around in the glass and regarded it thoughtfully.

"Shame. I think you'd find the history of the dwarves most diverting, Master Baggins. And our songs are full of mirth, joy, sorrow, triumph, history--"

"Or merely songs about my cutlery," Bilbo joked cautiously. "No, I don't have any books, but I have you. Why don't you tell me some tale of dwarvish history."

Thorin took a long, deep drink of his wine, eyes now firmly on Bilbo over the lip of the glass. Bilbo swallowed dryly as he fought to maintain eye contact. He was reminded of the looks he'd caught Thorin giving him for the past few weeks when the dwarf thought he wasn't paying attention. There was a sort of expectation— something that made Bilbo squirm as if he were supposed to know something he did not. It was also an element of longing that was not unlike how the mad king had looked at the mountain of gold in Erebor. 

Bilbo shook his head, the movement dislodging his gaze. No, that was an unfair comparison. Yes, there was something reminiscent there, but it wasn't the same cold, mindless, hunger that poisoned Thorin's mind in the Lonely Mountain.

The silence stretched between them, with only the snapping of the wood in the fire to fill the void. Bilbo drummed his fingers on his book's cover, focusing on the subtle flowery design etched into it. Bilbo began to open it back up, assuming Thorin had only broken his silence to insult his taste in literature before returning to his moody, mysterious silence with an ego boost.

Until, Thorin's now soothing voice interrupted the movement.

"The Tale of Dicean is a secret story amongst the Dwarves. Not openly shared with other races..."

The deep cadence of Thorin's voice paired with the golden hues from the firelight compelled Bilbo to sit up and pay attention. He shook his head, but he doubted that Thorin would've waited for an answer. He continued forward, not missing a beat.

_"There once lived a dwarf maiden many, many years ago who was particularly blessed with the fashioning of musical instruments. She was Dicea, daughter of the clan of Firebeards who came to dwell in Khazad-dûm after the turmoil of the great wars between elves, men, gods, and monsters. The Firebeards and Broadbeams were slow to mingle with my folk and Dicea even more so. She spent all her time perfecting her instruments and creating music, unlike any heard in those halls. She was tall for a dwarf with bright eyes but as strong as any man._

_"But, as you may not be aware, dwarf women are few. Many dwarves in those halls turned a favorable eye to her for marriage pacts, but she cared not. Instead, she busied herself entertaining the many dwarf lords with her music. They would even call upon her to venture out with them on peace missions with men and elves. Many a dwarf lord wanted to parade her talent before the other races to make themselves appear more lordly._

_"She cared not. She was content to hone her craft amongst the traveling dwarf lords and to even seek favor among the wandering clans of men and elves. Her apathy, however, blinded her to the danger that lay on the horizon. While traveling with a company of dwarves, they were ambushed by a large band of orcs. The Firebeards and the Broadbeams fought valiantly, but they were sorely outnumbered and without proper battle gear. And when all seemed at a loss, Dicea took up her newly shaped instrument and poured all her heart into a song that spread out across the field."_

Thorin stared so intently at the flames it appeared as if he were reading the script of his tale from the fire's depths. Bilbo leaned forward to listen to the calming lilt of the dwarf's voice.

_"She'd already started to hone the enchantment of music in small forms, but this moment was the catalyst of her power. The notes spread out to all those in the midst of battle. Although she was uncertain of how she managed it, she'd bent her will to all those with an ear so that all with evil intent fell immediately into an enchanted slumber._

_"And all those in her company looked upon her with fear and amazement. Further was their astonishment when it was discovered that their leader, a high lord of the Firebeards, had also fallen asleep. It then became clear that the ambush was orchestrated by those within her own clan, even her own kin, yet the fell reasons behind this evil weren't made known yet._

_"So, she fled. But upon waking, one of her kin saw that his plans were revealed and who was responsible. So he cursed her, his own blood._

Thorin hesitated, his gaze shifting from the fire to his own hands for just a moment. There was something in that pause that didn't appear to be related to the story. Bilbo frowned, but before he could ask if he was well, the dwarf continued.

_"She dressed in the traveling garb of the dwarf men of Durin and set out to find her own destiny away from the deceitful plans of those she used to call her kin. She traveled as a bard, changing her name from Dicea to Dicean. While all who looked upon Dicean saw only a simple dwarf, they would become enamored by the sound of her music and seek to have the traveling bard stay to entertain._

_"Dicean attempted to recreate the magic that manifested on the battlefield, but the craft evaded her. In that time, there lived a man of much magic and mystery in the growing city of Rhudaur. So she set out alone to seek the man and further her knowledge... "_

All of Thorin's earlier pauses had been expertly timed. Perfect breaks in the flow of the tale to redirect or build tension. But this pause seemed to indicate finality.

"And then what happened?"

Thorin met his eyes, and Bilbo noted the unnamable emotion again.

"She fell in love, Master Baggins," Thorin's voice was quiet with an ample amount of foreboding that contrasted with the words he spoke.

"With who?" Bilbo was compelled to ask.

"That's a whole other tale for another night."

Bilbo frowned and sat back in a huff. He glanced at the dimming fire and tuned into the crickets outside his window, beckoning him to bed.

"I do suppose it's late. But you'll continue, yes?"

Thorin nodded, "Of course, Master Baggins. "

\---

He crouched low on hands and knees, searching the darkness for anything familiar. But there was nothing. Nothing but cold stone under his eager fingers. He squinted at the darkness, desperate for a hint of anything to break up the insurmountable black.

The ground came to a stop where he bumped against a wall. He traced his hand upwards along the smooth seams of unseen carved designs. He felt where the wall disappeared, meaning he'd found a door or a hall. He peered around into the blackness. His eyes were immediately drawn to what appeared to be a tall form. Man? Elf? Something else?

The being appeared to be glowing, a fire burning without consuming him. A heart within its chest inflamed and lighting tracks under his skin where his veins were laid out. Its eyes were lanterns, searing the air and ground where it searched. Slowly examining the area. Looking for something or someone.

He watched as the beam of burning light traced the stones, coming ever closer to himself.

Bilbo bolted upright in his bed, a lingering cry from his dream still on his lips. He shifted his eyes from one familiar object to another to gather enough evidence that he was really and truly at Bag End.

\---

Bilbo ran his fingers through the dark earth around his late-blooming asters. It was a particularly rich patch over in this corner of his garden. His asters and lilies always congregated in the moist soil at the edge, refusing to stay where he'd initially planted them. Preferring to have a dance together here. Not that Bilbo really minded the joining. The purple and yellow blooms were wonderfully complementary— especially this late in the season.

It was the blasted weeds that bothered him. They, too, loved this corner of his garden. The devilish plants seemed to chase his beautiful blooms to choke out their happiness. He'd watched them grow exponentially over the past few days and couldn't stand their evil meddling any longer.

The dream had ushered him out of his chambers prematurely, but it had been too early to start breakfast or tea. He'd stepped out his door and spotted the offending patch of weeds amongst his lilies and violets. As the sun came up that morning, Bilbo found himself in the corner of his garden, plucking out various weeds and tossing them behind him.

Bilbo tried to focus on the flowers, but his mind kept bouncing back to his dream. His nightmare's details were already started to fade, leaving only a dark, shapeless dread behind.

Still, he felt some respite at the elimination of specific details from the dream. It was just a nightmare. He'd had many since his adventures and many prior. He'd always had a wild imagination. Always running off into the forest as a boy to chase creatures, both real and unreal. A wild mind such as his created wild visions during rest.

Bilbo reached forward to grasp a handful of green and pulled hard. He felt the stems dig into his palm before the roots gave way. He tossed them swiftly before grabbing another pesky plant.

This wasn't unusual. Sure, he'd had several nights in a row populated with dreams Bilbo couldn't fully recall but always anxiously felt in the morning. And yes, they corresponded with the return of his long...lost friend, but there couldn't be a connection. No connection other than his mind trying to make sense of Thorin's miraculous return.

The hobbit dug his fingernail under the soil and under a particularly stubborn bunch of roots. He pulled and twisted till the roots gave way.

Yes, that was it. He was merely churning over the limited facts Thorin was giving him and merging them with memories of dragon fire and dwarrow halls. The dreams were merely an embodiment of his own uncertainty.

He reached forward and grabbed two more handfuls and yanked hard.

Yes, that was the answer. Nothing more than that...

"Mr. Bilbo, sir. Did you want me to plant another kind of flower there? I thought you fancied them asters?"

Bilbo sat back on his heels, tilting his head up towards the voice. He blinked at the stark sunlight and, for a moment, didn't recognize Hamfest as he stood over him. Briefly, he was the dark vision from his dreams. But the sunlight broke through the illusion before it had a chance to seed fear into his heart.

"...The asters," he repeated, dully not comprehending the meaning behind Hamfest's words. He followed the other hobbit's line of sight down to the plants in his hands. To Bilbo's horror, he found a handful of his beautiful purple asters instead of weeds.

"Are you quite alright, Mr. Bilbo?" Hamfest tentatively asked as Bilbo continued to gape at his uprooted favorites.

Bilbo gently laid them back in the flowerbed and stood.

"I—I'm sorry Hamfest, I didn't rest well—thought they were," Bilbo's weak excuse was peppered with uncertainty and shaky syllables.

"Not to worry, Mr. Bilbo, no worry at all, why don't you go inside and have your tea. I smell it a-brewing through the window!" Hamfest gingerly patted his arm and smiled cautiously at him.

Bilbo nodded and all but ran out of the garden.

\---

Bilbo carefully closed the front door behind him. The smell of his favorite floral tea helped calm his nerves until it occurred to him that he didn't start tea prior to going to his garden.

As he crossed the parlor, he saw his favorite mug on the kitchen table, waiting for him with a welcoming line of warmth floating above it. He wrapped his hand around the cup and lifted it to his nose to breathe in the comforting scent.

Thorin came into his view, holding two plates. He gingerly slid one in front of Bilbo before taking a seat across from him. He then immediately started on his own plate, not waiting for a word from the hobbit.

Bilbo eyed him in over the lip of his mug with no small amount of incredulity. He brought the cup to his lips and drank deeply, the tea's warmth and tang washing away his earlier anxiety. He closed his eyes as he took another sip.

"Oh yes, that's it," he whispered as he basked in the lingering taste. "Thank you, Thorin," he said as he sat.

"You weren't in your room," Thorin stated.

Bilbo plucked up a fork to inspect the breakfast before him. He ignored how the dwarf stared intently at him as he munched noisily on a mouthful of bread and butter.

"I needed some morning air."

"You rarely go out before your tea."

Bilbo pushed the overdone tomato on his plate, hyper-aware of the other's eyes boring into his skull. It was challenging to push down his anger at Thorin for his persistent questions when the dwarf continued to exist in his home without explanation or even answering even the smallest inquiries.

"That's not true. You haven't been here long enough to know what I will and will not do," Bilbo's words were singed with a warning to the dwarf. Something that his companion must've picked up on judging by the stillness that fell between them. They sat in lukewarm silence, each working on their morning treats.

Bilbo managed a few bites of the meal prepared, and while tasty in an overcooked way that only dwarves could do in the kitchen, he retreated back to his comforting tea. He wasn't aware of how long he was there staring out into space, occasionally sipping the tea till a kettle came into view to refill his drink. Bilbo looked up at his friend, who regarded him with concern in his dark eyes— one of the first real emotions he'd been able to identify in the dwarf.

"Thank you, Thorin. I'm quite alright, really."

Thorin didn't seem very convinced, but he didn't delve into the issue.

  
  


\---

The deafening silence felt physical. As if it were steadily pressing itself on the sides of his skull. He outstretched his arm along the smooth wall of the carved corridor. His fingers catching on the intricately carved lines that were a staple in his new home.

_Home_?

He tripped as if the foreign thought had been responsible for his stumble. He caught himself before crashing into the ground. He gripped his knees, staring at his feet, trying to recall where exactly here was and why there was no one.

He lifted his head and opened his mouth, attempting to cry out. The sound that left him was muffled and blunt. He drew in a deep breath and tried again with similar results. He continued down the hall, swiftly now, realizing just how alone he really was.

The hall finally gave way to a large open room. The light was scarce, but he could see various grand staircases and curved bridges. He called again, and not even the suppressed noise emerged. He felt utterly alone with not even his own voice to encourage and cheer him.

As he continued to stumble into the expansive room, he caught a glimpse of a familiar silhouette. A tall, kingly outline of a person he both admired and loved-- long hair, sharp nose, proud brow. He turned and started toward the figure, the name muted on his lips.

He stumbled again, over the strange, heavy robe draped over his shoulders. Frustrated, he shrugged it off and stood, feeling no less weighed down and no less clumsy. 

He came upon his companion and, upon close inspection, discovered the figure had not moved. He brought a hand up to his mouth and gasped as the stone likeness of a dwarf he knew not. The stature must've been of the same line as his beloved for the resemblance was striking. It was a beautiful effigy of the unknown dwarf lord, his hand ready at the sword on his, and his head held high as he prepared for a fight. 

But as he took a step closer, he could see something wasn't right. The way his eyebrows were pulled together were a little too real and indicative of a living person's real emotional state. He leaned forward, closer to the stone, trying to determine why this very precise detail made the hair on his forearms stand up.

And then the stone eyes moved, locking on him.

He gave a voiceless shout and stumbled back, landing hard on his backside. As he tried to quickly scramble up, he realized that he wasn't alone after all. Across the room, sitting on a jade throne was a real flesh and blood figure. The shape was unfamiliar, but the laugh he knew all too well.

The eyes of the man burned like fire.

\---

Bilbo was uncertain how long he sat in the dark trying to calm his nerves. But it was long enough to know that he needed to get up and make himself a cup of tea despite the hour. Bilbo quickly shrugged on his robe and left his chambers. 

He floundered for a moment in the hall before running into something tall and solid. He was further startled by Thorin's looming form, once again, haunting the darkened halls of Bad-End. For the briefest moment, Bilbo thought he was the fiery figure from his dreams. Thorin reached out to steady him before Bilbo fell backward into his chambers.

"Oh! Thorin," Bilbo whispered in relief. It takes a moment longer for his annoyance and suspicion to float to the surface. He wanted to plant his hands on his hips, glower at the dwarf and demand (while he was in the act) why he was lurking his halls. But the dwarf continued to hold him solidly but gently by his upper arms, not allowing Bilbo the movement to show his full frustration.

He stuck out his neck and gave him a stern look, "What are you doing, really, Thorin?" 

The limited amount of light made it difficult for Bilbo to see all the nuances to the Thorin's expression. But he could make out enough to see that Thorin was attempting to be as stone-faced as possible. Given a little more light, Bilbo was confident he'd see the other emotions that usually bubbled under the surface of the dwarf and came through in his eyes.

As it were, Thorin was a perfect replica of one of those statues from Erebor. Or rather, from his own troubled dreams. Bilbo shivered involuntarily at the lingering imagery from his nightmares. He blinked and looked away from Thorin and the memory of cold stone faces in his dream. He looked straight ahead at his chest.

Bilbo knew he must follow up with something more demanding. Something to get the dwarf to explain his behavior, or rather, his whole existence. The mystery surrounding his reappearance was starting to become rather wild in his active imagination. If Thorin would just give him something, anything, to quell his fears and anxieties.

But the hand holding his upper arm had started to lightly stroke a patch of his skin exposed due to a poor job of him tying up his night coat. And that small drag of calloused fingers on his skin effectively cleared his head of his initial anger. 

Bilbo let Thorin have his silence.

He considered the myriad of things left unsaid between them and felt a pang of guilt at his own participation. Yes, Thorin was not open about his miraculous resurrection, but Bilbo had been complicit with their strange arrangement. He'd cooked and cleaned and filled his pipe and pretended that nothing happened between them in those last few days together all those years ago.

The weight of those days had always been an anchor on Bilbo's heart. The memories of his adventures mingling in both bitter and sweet ways. He held onto the warm friendship and bond he forged with the company. Bilbo beamed openly as he recalled his acts of bravery that he never knew he was capable of. 

But there was everything left unsaid as they sat side-by-side by many nightly fires. There was that betrayal on the wall. There was that final goodbye in the snow. 

Bilbo had spent years coming to terms with his own grief and regret. Primarily by focusing on the sweeter moments during his time the Thorin and company. He'd made as much peace as he possibly could with the past.

Until Thorin casually showed up at his door again. Effectively unmooring his spirit and drudging up years of quiet contemplation on their friendship and their actions.

Bilbo turned his head toward the smallest of connections between them. The hand on his arm, holding him and the small stroke, stroke, stroke of Thorin's fingers on his shoulder. They stood so close that Thorin's soft breath pushed the unruly curls at the top of his head, and his body warmed him in the chilly night air.

Thorin was alive and warm...Not the cold, draining body he clung in the ice and snow as the eagles circled above them.

"Thorin," the word stumbled off his tongue, raw and itchy. He cleared his throat, prepared to go at it again, but the dwarf beat him to it.

"You should return to bed, Bilbo," Thorin released him and turned away before the hobbit had a chance to react. "Get some rest, Master Hobbit."

  
  


\---

"What's this?" Thorin grunted as he stepped out of the round door. He approached the stump Bilbo had rolled out a few minutes prior. Bilbo was by the gate, giving Hamfest his utmost thanks and assuring him that he need not worry about the pile of unsplit wood that now lay in a neat stack beside the stump.

"Are you sure you don't need me to quarter those logs, Mr. Bilbo?" Hamfest earnestly offered again.

"No, no, of course not. As you can see," Bilbo gestured to Thorin. "I have a master of the ax under my roof who's in need of some occupation. But thank you, Master Hamfest."

"Well, alright, Mr. Bilbo, good afternoon," Hamfest leaned forward to wave at Thorin but then must've thought better of it. He swiftly scurried on down the hill with his now empty wheelbarrow.

Bilbo turned to regard his companion. "You've moped long enough, I think it's about time to earn your keep. There's the task," he gestured to the pile, "We need to stock up before it truly turns cold," Bilbo leaned back to look up at the sky, "Autumn is about finished, and a snowstorm is just around the corner."

Thorin considered him with a raised eyebrow before turning his attention to the pile of wood and the small ax leaning against it. He started to roll his sleeves. "Do you have a decent ax?"

"That one will have to do. I have nothing fancier."

Bilbo walked past Thorin to examine his garden. The winter chill was chasing away all the deep reds, rich browns, and brilliant reds he'd been enjoying. And while some gardeners would simply let the frost take care of his garden, Bilbo preferred to prepare it for the oncoming cold. He sank to his knees to examine what needed to be pulled and what could stay.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thorin swing the ax up to examine the tip. If it was possible, the dwarf frowned even deeper.

Regardless, he picked up the first block of wood and placed it on the stump. Bilbo watched him as he brought the ax up and around his body, using gravity and the technique of his swing to easily split the wood in two. Although it appeared effortless and graceful to Bilbo, something about the instrument must've displeased Thorin judging by how he shook his head afterward.

Bilbo watched him a moment longer before returning his attention to the garden. "Do you remember anything? "Bilbo cautiously inquired. 

What he really wanted to ask is if Thorin remembered much of those final days before his death. Did _this_ Thorin know what words were passed between them, and only them before death took the dwarf away? 

Could that knowledge prove to Bilbo that this was indeed the Thorin he'd grown to respect?

The quick-slick wooden sound of sharp iron splitting a log came as a reply. Thinking Thorin hadn't heard him and not sure he was ready to really press the moody dwarf, Bilbo doubled down on the task at hand.

"I remember much, dwarves have resilient memories."

Bilbo frowned at the ground, grateful that Thorin couldn't see his expression. Bilbo would have to be more specific.

"Life at Erebor before the dragon?" Bilbo tried to make the question as casual as possible, but the words had their own weight behind them.

"I do, yes. I remember the vast halls before—," Thorin faltered. For a brief moment, Bilbo wondered at his pause. Thorin never gave the dragon that much caution in the past. But the moment was gone before he could dwell on it much longer.

"I remember my first smithy lesson. I remember the early dealings with the wood elves. I remember having to take watch over my sister and brother."

"You have a brother?" Bilbo asked. He knew about Fili and Kili's mother, Thorin's sister, but they made no mention of another uncle. Surely, he'd be next in line to rule Erebor—.

And he realized his mistake a moment before Thorin corrected him.

"Had. I had a brother. Frerin died in battle at the gates of Moria."

"I"m sorry, Thorin, I didn't--" He sat back on his heels and faced the other.

Thorin raised a hand to silence his apology. "You do not dishonor him by stirring up his memories."

Bilbo's eyes flicked down to the stump and back up to Thorin.

"What was he like?"

Thorin's gaze scraped across the garden but avoided Bilbo. He slowly reached down to grab another log.

"Frerin was brave and merry. With no worries about future kingship, the prince would get into all sorts of mischief—the most talented artist with metal you'd ever see. I believe you would've enjoyed his company. Jolly and full of songs and tales he was. Not like me."

"I've heard you sing a song or two," Bilbo said offhandedly.

Silence stretched between them, except for the sound of wood being hewn in half.

"And the battle at Erebor, do you remember that?" Bilbo asked boldly without turning his face to the dwarf.

The ax came down twice before he answered.

"Aye. With clarity."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Thorin place his ax on the stump in front of him and lean both arms on it. The tilt of his head told Bilbo that he was looking in the hobbit's direction.

He wasn't sure how long he tried to busy himself pulling weeds and breaking up the ground with his nimble fingers, but at long last, Thorin followed up with: "The last thing I beheld was you."

Compelled by those words, Bilbo lifted his head. Thorin's eyes were uncharacteristically warm, an expression he'd seen numerous times after the goblin caves and before the dragon sickness. An expression he'd almost forgotten the dwarf-king could possess.

"I did what you told me. Do you remember--"

"Go back to your books, your armchair, your trees."

"I planted it. The acorn," Bilbo found it difficult to tear his eyes from Thorins. Still, he turned to gesture to a small tree. When he tilted his head back, he was met with the same tenderness.

Bilbo dropped his chin to his chest and started to till the ground where he'd cleared out the weeds. His heart told him this really was Thorin. No dark treachery at play. This was really and truly his friend. That final conversation between himself and Thorin he'd kept to himself. The only other person who knew those words was Thorin himself.

This had to be him...

But even as he doubled down on this certainty, darkness seemed to seep into his mind like spilled molasses.

Bilbo climbed to his feet and snatched a hoe leaning against the fence. He drummed his fingers on the top of the tool and tapped his foot as he tried to phrase his next questions.

"And when you awoke, what do you remember?"

Thorin tensed visibly. A shadow passed before his eyes as he bent down for another log. Bilbo marveled at how swiftly the dwarf could change moods.

"Do you recall any... I don't know, any enchantment?"

"I remember nothing," his words were clipped and final.

"You remember our last conversation, but nothing more?"

"Bilbo," He warned as he slammed down the next log.

"There's got to be something, Thorin, something to explain—"

The ax came down so violently that the two halves of wood bounced several feet away. Bilbo watched as one rolled close to his autumn lilies, still clinging to bloom. Bilbo tried to swallow his anger at the dwarf's reckless tantrum.

"You think I'm reborn out of malice. That I'm an evil creature," Thorin raised his voice and glared at Bilbo.

"No. No! Thorin, I'm just trying to understand—"

"You understand nothing. What can a hobbit know about Mahal's children?."

"Don't be cross at me, you came here, remember?" Bilbo put one hand on his hip as he returned the dwarfish glare for an equally fierce hobbit one. "You decided to come here. If I know nothing of your tragedies, then what compelled you to come here? Why here? "

"Bilbo—"Thorin started to gripe back at him, but as he brought down the ax, the two halves flew so powerfully that Bilbo watched in a panic as one log almost got one of his windows, and the other mowed over a few stubborn wildflowers in his garden. He turned back to Thorin to give him half an earful when he saw the dwarf examining a cut on his hand.

"Thorin!" Bilbo shrieked as he dropped the gardening tools in his hand and scurried over to the dwarf. Thorin turned, trying to hide the damage.

"Thorin, don't be silly, let me see."

His companion sighed in such an all-consuming way that his shoulders appeared to shrink by a whole foot. He turned, presenting his hand to the hobbit.

"Hand slipped; that daft piece of iron you call an ax—"

"Oh, hush," Bilbo pulled out his handkerchief and started to mop up the blood to see the damage. It wasn't a deep cut, but it was long, starting at his pinky and going up to his wrist. Bilbo pulled the handkerchief away to examine it, or more precisely, the bright, alive, brilliant red blood. His stare must've lingered too long, prompting Thorin to interrupt his trance.

"Yes. I do bleed red."

Bilbo looked up at him, finding his expression somewhere between anger and sorrow. An immense rush of shame crashed over him. His own reservations and doubts about Thorin's identity and origin must've been on full display.

Bilbo quickly went to work, cleaning the wound and binding it up. "It's not a bad cut, but you must be more careful."

It almost seemed insulting to tell a dwarf to be careful with an ax, but it was the only phrase that floated to his conflicted mind.

"For healing," Thorin said after Bilbo finished tying up his hand.

"What?" Bilbo asked.

"I'm here for healing."

Bilbo realized that this was the answer to his earlier question, _'why here?'._

"Healing?" Bilbo breathed softly, his eyes turning to Thorin's face for some explanation.

Thorin nodded but didn't turn his head towards the hobbit. Instead, focusing on their hands where Bilbo's were still tenderly holding his much larger, injured hand. Thorin gingerly placed his other hand over Bilbo's, letting their fingers intertwine.

Bilbo wanted to dig deeper. Wanted to demand the dwarf explain himself, but the cut needed some better bandages then his handkerchief, and he needed time to consider this new information.

  
  


\---

Bilbo sat at the kitchen table, a large map spread out before him. He clutched a cooling cup of tea in his hands as his eyes followed the smooth lines of the roads and hills and mountains in the parchment before him. 

He sighed and looked away, to the window. Snow had finally come to the Shire. Large, quiet flakes rained down outside his darkened window. He shivered before glancing at the dying fire. It was late; there was no use in feeding the kitchen fire when Thorin, no doubt, was graciously tending to the hearth. He stretched luxuriously before stepping into his parlor.

He first noticed the dying fire, and then the slumbering dwarf, his body angled awkwardly against the wing of the large armchair Bilbo had found for him. He took a moment to just observe the sight of the very-important-dwarf now resting by his humble fire. Bilbo noted briefly that he wasn't sure he'd seen Thorin slumber since they started their coexistence together.

Bilbo approached the fire, grabbing the poker to rustle up the last of the warmth those few logs could give. He was careful to not make a lot of noise to awaken the dwarf. As he continued to gently prod the wood, he glimpsed one of his finest wine glasses teetering delicately in Thorin's fingers. Bilbo snorted softly at the dwarf's audacity to take his leave of the waking world but still managed to put one of his loveliest dishes in danger.

He leaned over, trying to reach the glass while still holding the sooty poker over the fire. While he was successful at his stealth, he was not so much with his finesse. He managed to pinch the lip of the glass between his fingers, but the movement only jarred it out of Thorin's grasp and onto the carpet. 

Bilbo only had a moment of remorse and concern for the glass before that fear was redirected at himself.

There was a sudden movement, a black-clad blur. Bilbo then found himself quite suddenly on his back on that very same carpet with a frantic, looming figure pressing against his neck. He tried to claw at the pressure, but only one arm was free; the other hand, which still held the poker was pinned down. 

"Tho—Thorin," he wheezed.

The wild expression on the dwarf's face was almost entirely foreign to Bilbo. 

Almost.

He'd seen that mad, animalistic gleam in his eye before. The same frenzied eyes bared down on him in his own home as they did when he was half hanging over Erebor's ramparts. Terror shot up from the pit of his stomach as he was faced with how dangerous his guest could be. Bilbo gasped for air and tried to buck him off, short syllables escaped his lips to plead with him.

The fog lifted slowly. Bilbo could see recognition, then confusion, and finally, horror. He sprang off Bilbo as if burned.

"Bilbo— I, are you?"

Bilbo didn't fully hear his apologetic jabbering, he was too busy coughing and gasping for breath. He curled to his side, leaning heavily on his elbow as he tried to sit up. 

"Yes, yes," he coughed again. He shrank back and batted away a hand outstretched toward him.

"I'm fine, you fool," he rushed to say, trying to pivot the situation away from himself, "It's my rug that you should be concerned with, look at it!" Bilbo crawled on his hands and knees to where the shattered wine glass lay. "Wine stains and soot," he muttered because it was easier to be troubled by the carpet, the soot, and the glass than for his own safety. It was simpler to fuss about the state of his hearth then to focus on just how terribly frightened Bilbo was. He tried to pick up one of the shattered glass pieces, but his uncoordinated fingers were now trembling, causing the pieces to fall and bounce away.

Two large, steady hands grasped his shoulders. The simple gesture made the hobbit stop. He sniffed loudly and sat back on his heels but didn't turn to face Thorin. He waited for his companion to speak because he sure wasn't going to for fear his words would be dripping with tears.

"I'm sorry, Bilbo."

The three simple words came after a terrible pause. Bilbo sat facing away from him. He sniffed and nodded, looked down at his own hands, and tried to gather his wits. Before long, he stood and, again, shooed the dwarf away without looking at him and all but ran out of the room.

  
  


\---

He knew he was moving because of the cold and clammy stones under his feet kept changing, occasionally snagging his toes painfully. However, the darkness was so dense that he might have been moving with his eyes shut. He reached forward into nothing and then back again to his side, where he felt rough walls, hewn out of necessity instead of pride. This was no dwarf dwelling. Regardless, he knew it quite well. He could smell the stale water up ahead and the gently splish-splash of a mysterious being paddling a boat in an underground lair.

He heard a familiar voice calling to his precious.

He turned and ran. Ran back up the incline and stubbing his poor bruised toes on the very same snags in the goblin tunnels that he'd hit on the way down. Still, he sped up, desperate to not find himself back by that cold underground lake.

A grey light smoothly brightened the path before him. He turned a corner, and the scene shifted. He stumbled under the dizzying suddenness. He was back again in the finely shaped halls of dwarvish nature. But the ensuing sounds of panic and strife didn't put him at ease. A dense cloud of smoke drifted to the ceiling. A muggy sweat immediately gathered at his brow.

He saw figures rushing past the hall he was tucked into. The smoke making them mere shadows. He backed away, fear of the unknown ahead almost overpowering the well-known horror that was behind him.

Something compelled him to dash down another much more narrow corridor with fewer cries of battle and less ominous smoke. At the end of the hall, he saw a great, green round door that stuck out from the more angular designs on the walls around it.

_Home_.

He rushed to it, grasping the doorknob and leaning back with all his might to pry it open. He was abruptly on his own doorstep, looking out across the fields of the Shire.

Everything was on fire.

\---

The following day, Bilbo carried the weight of the dream with him. He was jittery and anxious in his own home in a manner he'd never quite experienced before. The nightmare pulled him out of bed earlier than usual, so he busied himself with breakfast. Bilbo quickly ate his own eggs and toast before the dwarf managed to amble to the kitchen. He was sure to leave Thorin his morning meal before he fetched his coat and scurried outside, despite the cold weather, he needed to go for a long walk.

He was uncertain how long he stayed away, but the time wasn't spent adequately clearing his mind. No matter how many of his neighbors he stopped to chit-chat with idly and how many steps he put between himself and the dwarf at Bag End, the lingering fear and frustration remained.

He returned more flustered and agitated than when he left. He shouldn't feel afraid in his own home. He shouldn't continue to feed and shelter someone who refused to give him any explanation for his perplexing return to the living. Was he to anxiously wait for the dwarf to have another outburst? Or perhaps he'd awaken one morning to find Thorin really and truly gone again. The very thought pulled his heart through his body and into his toes.

And the potency of that sorrow only made him angrier.

Bilbo boldly entered Bag End, hanging up his cloak and haphazardly letting his walking stick clatter against the wall near the door.

He found the dwarf by the fire, no pipe or glass of wine. He appeared almost as agitated as Bilbo felt. Thorin stood quickly and appeared to be ready to say something altogether important and heartless, but Bilbo was having none of that.

"No," Bilbo said, taking a step toward him and pointing an accusatory finger up. "No. I've had just about enough of you making yourself at home, your majesty, and providing me with absolutely no explanation."

Whatever Thorin was about to say died on his lips. He stood up straight and closed his mouth. And in his usual method of conversation, he remained silent.

"Because the last known record of Thorin son of Thrain had him put to rest in Erebor. I know this. I saw--" Bilbo stomped his foot and closed his eyes as the terrible memory shook his frame, "I saw this. I watched him leave the world after succumbing to his wounds. I was beside him till they took him away and prepared him for burial. And I watch them encase his body in stone."

"—Bilbo," Thorin tried to interrupt.

"No, no, I want to know why. Why are you—" Bilbo struggled with the question because it wasn't as if he was disappointed that his dear friend was alive... "And why are you here?" He stomped his foot again and took a step closer to the dwarf. "Why are you here and not at the kingdom you died for? Why are you not with your people? With your kin?"

Bilbo took another step toward him, closing the gap between them quickly. "Why are you haunting ME?"

"Because I can't go back!" Thorin all but shouted.

Bilbo took half a step back but still held his head high and matched Thorin's gaze with his own. He'd had enough confrontation with the dwarf to not be frightened too dearly by a raised voice.

At least the dwarf was communicating.

"Why can't you go back?"

"Bilbo, do not interrogate me on these matters—," Thorin tried to turn away, but the hobbit merely followed him.

"Anywhere you could go, but you chose to come here. Why?" Bilbo was close behind him, desperate for something he could hang logic onto, "I deserve to know why you're here. I've already grieved for your loss, Thorin—" Bilbo's voice cracked. He stood still, dropped his chin to his chest as he tried to recover, but the sudden rush of grief almost overwhelmed him.

"I've already—" Bilbo blinked rapidly as the tears threatened to return. He huffed in frustration through his nose, "I've already cried many nights over you."

Bilbo focused on the floor, trying to not think of the journey back to Bag End from Erebor and how, despite the lack of goblins, and evil creatures, they were the hardest of his adventures.

Two calloused hands came to rest on his shoulders, taking him out of his memories. He looked up into his friend's face. "I've already mourned for you. So I deserve to know--"

Bilbo desperately searched Thorin's expression for anything that he could hold onto.

"Please," Bilbo pleaded. 

There was a crack in his armor—a subtle change in the tightness around his eyes that told Bilbo that he'd gotten through.

Thorin's hands gently slid down to rest on Bilbo's upper arms. A light caress from the dwarf's thumb comforted him. "I don't know," Thorin said softly, "I'm cursed. I know it. I can feel it. I was awoken unnaturally to a dark vision that I cannot fully recall. I regained my mind and body far from the mountain, from where they" he swallowed, "must've buried me. I was alone. Unarmed. But I knew I couldn't return to the mountain."

Thorin's hands slipped further down Bilbo's arms till they cupped his hands. The dwarf focused on Bilbo's fingers as if he'd never seen anything quite like them.

"My ancestor was known as Durin the Deathless— did you know that? He lived so long that his people believed he'd endure forever," Thorin turned Bilbo's fingers this way and that, inspecting them, "Perhaps there's something to that name."

Bilbo clutched at the larger hands, stilling them both; a clear demand that Thorin should return his attention to his face. Thorin's alertness snapped back to him.

"You don't know," Bilbo clearly stated. "Then we need to find someone who can find out. We should go to Gandalf. Maybe head to Rivendell in the morning—"

That angered him. Thorin dropped his hands and glowered down at him. "I've had my fill of magic makers and elvish wisdom for one lifetime, Master burglar. I prefer to avoid them in this one. Enough of outsiders trying to meddle in dwarf business!" He sneered.

"And yet," Bilbo reminded him, "You're here. In the Shire. With me. About as outside as you can get."

"You're not an outsider, Bilbo," Thorin's voice was different, still stern but warm. "You're my preserver, my thief—," the sentence broke off as if he realized he'd said too much. 

Thorin was still holding back. Still keeping secrets.

"Your _healer_?" Bilbo accused, bringing up the dwarfs' words from that day in the garden. "I don't know what you honestly think I'm capable of doing, Thorin. But I'm no healer. I'm just a hobbit. I'm not even a thief. Gandalf embellished in a way only wizards can."

Thorin's anger seemed to dissipate at those words. He regarded Bilbo in a manner he'd seen a few times in their journey but specifically in Erebor after discovering the acorn. It was gentle and kind, and something else that Bilbo struggled to fully understand.

He recalled Thorin's words as he lay dying. The wonder and regret they held when he spoke of Bilbo and the Shire as if they were indeed something wondrous to behold. Perhaps the dwarf thought they were the answer to all his current ailments.

The weight of that realization was vast and heavy. Bilbo had to look away. He'd gotten he company out of many impossible situations, but what could he possibly do with a cursed, undead dwarf? He wanted to denounce any responsibility to heal him and assure him again that he held nothing of import that could pull Thorin out of his darkness.

"You're wrong, Master Baggins."

All of Bilbo's fight had faded away. He wanted to ask him for clarification to determine precisely what he was to Thorin, but that line of questioning frightened him more than learning the origin of his resurrection. So Bilbo pulled away, turned, and fled to the halls that led to his bedroom.

  
  


\---

Later, Bilbo set out supper but did not join Thorin. Instead, he shrugged on his cloak and stepped out his door to look out over the Shire. The time of day was very similar to that first night he saw Thorin, now months ago. The sun was setting, casting the Shire in a warm rhubarb dipped light. He pulled in a deep breath through his nose and noted the cold, crisp air that sobered him up and cleared his head. Winter in Hobbiton always felt like a reset for him. I time for him to huddle away and defog his mind.

If he wanted to, he could leave, go to Rivendell and seek counsel even if Thorin would not. There was still time to travel safely there and back before the winter shut everyone in. He could do it, he wasn't afraid of Thorin's wrath. He'd done much worse in the dwarf's eyes with much more at stake.

But as he entertained the idea, a shiver rocked his body. He glanced over his shoulder briefly at the warm light coming from the kitchen window.

Bilbo feared if he left and came back, he'd only find an empty hobbit hole. He'd discover this was all a dream of an aging, cracking hobbit.

Bilbo crossed his arms and looked at the thin layer of snow at his feet. If he did nothing, would that be so wrong? Bilbo was providing his dear friend with much-needed shelter and companionship. Did it really matter what caused this and where he came from? Do the details matter?

Something about the question pulled his arms apart and had him slip one hand into his pocket. His thumb brushed past the mysterious gold ring. He never questioned the magic of the small trinket. Bilbo only knew that it was useful and helpful to him on his quest and occasionally around the Shire. He never consulted Gandalf's wisdom on the ring because he saw the benefits and used them wisely.

"Has your family always lived here?"

Bilbo thought he had grown accustomed to Thorin's presence and would no longer be startled by him. But, apparently not, judging by the small hop, his body involuntarily did. Bilbo grasped the ring in his pocket and turned towards the dwarf briefly.

"Here? At Bag-End, I have, yes," Bilbo said, "My father built Bag-End for my mother not long before I was born. He was a very talented carpenter, wouldn't you say?"

Thorin hummed in agreement before he settled next to Bilbo, looking out across the darkening fields. "Your mother, she's the hobbit above your mantle?"

Bilbo looked him up and down, standing tall and proud next to him. At first glance, and if you had no past acquaintances with him, you'd only see the noble kin of Durin-folk that he always was. But Bilbo saw nervousness in his shoulders and heard timidity in his tone- if it was at all appropriate to call anything about the dwarf timid. But to Bilbo, he was clearly apprehensive. 

Bilbo nodded. "Belladonna the remarkable, she was the kindest woman you'd ever meet but perhaps a tad too curious and imaginative for a hobbit."

"Sounds like someone I know," Thorin remarked with a jolly hint in his timbre. A small smile tugged at the corner of Bilbo's mouth as he continued to watch the night creep across the Shire.

"Did you have a mother, Thorin? You don't seem the sort, honestly," Bilbo jested.

Thorin laughed lightly. A sound Bilbo hadn't really heard in their time together. Not since his adventure and well before they got to the mountain.

"Yes. Master Baggins, dwarves, do indeed have mothers."

Bilbo looked up at his companion again. Thorin appeared more relaxed, content even. Perhaps relieved that their conversation was civil. "What was her name?"

Thorin's jaw appeared to clench, and for a moment, Bilbo thought he was going to return to his isolating silence, but instead, he merely said, "Frera."

"Beautiful name," Bilbo replied. "She must've been also."

"We dwarves don't put much stock into the born beauty of people. We're not so vain as elves to judge beauty only by that mark. We attribute worth through the beauty someone creates, through craft or through honorable deeds," briefly Thorin's eyes met his, a softness in their usual hard centers. He cleared his throat and lifted his head high, "She was indeed beautiful, but she was remarkably intelligent and insurmountably stubborn."

"Sounds like someone I know."

Thorin turned his head down towards him. Bilbo met the dwarf's eyes with a broad, playful smile and was rewarded with a mirrored expression.

"Aye," Thorin agreed.

Bilbo broke their eye contact to look up at the night sky. The snowfall had started to increase, now coming down in large flakes instead of lazy dots.

"So, who does she fall in love with?"

Thorin made a questioning grunt.

"Dicea, from the story," Bilbo returned his eyes to the dwarf, noting how they must've unconsciously stepped nearer.

"It is a tale for the fireplace, but," Thorin looked down on him warmly, "She fell in love with a daughter of man."

  
  


\---

After an hour or two of idle tossing and turning, Bilbo sat up, swinging his legs over the bed's side. His eyes had grown accustomed to the low light due to sleep evading him. He stared at the grey and blue shadows of his room that made up his nightstand and trunk of knick-knacks.

Bilbo sighed and ran a hand over his eyes and forehead. He either had increasingly more haunted dreams or no sleep at all.

"Which is worse?" he muttered to the darkness.

A shadow from the corner of his eyes shifted. He abruptly looked to his half-opened door and saw the familiar grey shadows that made up one Thorin Oakenshield, again wandering the halls at night.

"Heavens!" Bilbo hissed, "Thorin, would you just," he huffed through his nose, trying to determine what exactly he wanted the dwarf to do. "Just come here."

The featureless shape on the other side of the threshold appeared to consider his options before seeping into his bedroom. For an individual caught in the act, Thorin held no shame and approached him with no hesitation once he was inside.

"What are you doing? This is becoming a routine with you-- why..just--," Bilbo tried to find the root of his concern. However, he found that the mixture of Thorin looming above him as he sat in his bed clothing in the dark put him on edge in a way he didn't fully understand.

He swallowed his words and dropped his chin, staring at the loose tunic on Thorin's chest. A compulsion overtook him, and he reached out to gingerly lay his balled-up fist on that chest—a coy action, almost intimate.

Thorin tilted his head to regard the hand on him before cautiously laying his hand over the fist. He delicately worked his calloused fingers into Bilbo's, prying the hobbit's fingers open before pressing his palm against Thorin's chest. He guided the hand towards the center where the tunic was open. 

Bilbo gasped at the warmth and the undeniably beat-beat-beating of an active and alive heart. He jerked his head up as if seeing him again for the first time, real and alive.

"Thorin?" he whispered.

The dwarf smiled. An expression that had always seemed rare on the somber dwarf's face. Scarce but warm, as warm as the skin under Bilbo's fingertips.

Thorin took a step closer. He removed his hand from Bilbos to carefully cup his face, forcing Bilbo to look up at him and only him. He saw a shift in the subtle joy on Thorin's expression. A sort of frantic searching. Bilbo felt his thumbs caress his cheeks and wondered what Thorin saw when he looked at him like this.

Thorin leaned over, pressing his forehead against his. Bilbo sighed at the closeness. He closed his eyes to just enjoy the moment. On instinct, as if afraid the dwarf would fade away, Bilbo reached up with his other hand to grip Thorin's shirt and hold fast.

He wasn't certain how much time passed with them holding onto each other. Only the slow press of lips on his own brought him back to the present. Bilbo's eyes shot open in surprise, but his fists clenched the fabric all the tighter. Thorin didn't relent, this wasn't just a quick gesture between close travel companions who shared life and death in a grand adventure. No, he continued to push and slid his lips against Bilbo's.

Bilbo's body responded before his mind could catch up. A sound between a moan and a squawk left his lips when Thorin shifted his angle. Bilbo allowed himself to melt into the dwarf's lips and hands and chest.

Bilbo's experience with kissing was limited, and the last time he partook had been years prior to leaving the Shire with a group of rag-tag dwarves and a wizard. He'd half courted a Brandybuck lass very briefly and ran around in the woods with an adventurous Hornblower boy for a summer before the other boy settled down with a local hobbit lass.

But in both those cases, his lovers had been hobbits. They were quick to laugh and soft beneath his fingers and lips. Thorin, on the other hand, was hard muscle and calloused skin. He was all lightly chapped lips and scratchy beard against his own chin. The stark differences anchored Bilbo in the solemnity of this moment.

Still, Bilbo knew enough to press his lips back.

That small show of mutual affection must've been what the dwarf had been waiting for. He surged forward, a river unleashed from the dam, wrapped his arms around Bilbo's and pulled him almost entirely up and off the bed. A small yelp escaped his lips as Bilbo wrapped both arms around his neck for support.

Thorin easily supported him against his body. Both his arms wrapped around his back, pressing him into the dwarf's chest. Thorin moved them both back onto the bed, the shift making Bilbo yelp against his lips before he was abruptly released back onto the bed. He bounced at impact and laughed at how absurd he must appear. He wanted to make a joke, something to dissipate the unrelenting tension. Still, any coherent sentence died on his tongue as both Thorin's tunic and Bilbo's nightshirt were seized and discarded swiftly.

  
  


Thorin descended on him, directing his mouth to Bilbo's jaw and neck. He could catch a few mumbled words about how soft his skin was, but Bilbo wasn't confident if that was a compliment or an insult coming from a dwarf. Bilbo tried to trace what muscle he could reach, but the dwarf kept moving over him, more concerned with giving his own caresses and kisses, then presenting himself to the hobbit.

  
  


Between the frantic almost desperate touches, a repeated plea formed between his huffs and groans and floundering chuckles. Thorin stopped suddenly, his whole body strained as if he were a bow pulled tautly. He was over Bilbo, knees spread on either side of the hobbit's legs, back hunched over him, completely surrounding him. 

Thorin pulled in a long, steadying breath and said, "Yes?"

It was then that Bilbo realized the repeated word had been himself saying Thorin's name over and over in different cadences. At times wild with need and other times riddled with apprehension.

"What do you want? What do you wish from me? Tell me," he whispered. Bilbo could see his hands flexing, fingers reaching out before curling back in on themselves again and again. Thorin was clearly trying to get control of himself to pay Bilbo respect.

Bilbo propped himself up on his elbows, and leaning up, he gently pressed his lips against Thorins. He was slow but no less enthusiastic in intent. He pulled away just enough to whisper "you" into his mouth. 

Bilbo fully anticipated the dwarf to surge forward and continue his ardent love-making. But instead, he pulled away and slipped off the bed. Bilbo watched him as he swiftly removed his belt and pants, shucking them off quickly. Thorin rejoined him on the bed, the dwarf's weight, causing Bilbo to pop up abruptly, arms outstretched, trying to steady himself. Thorin caught him in his arms, welcoming him with another kiss. Bilbo leaned into it, making sure to communicate desire over his anxious anticipation. He reached down to remove his last shred of clothing, but the dwarf had already grasped the top of his drawers and yanked them down and away.

Their pace slowed but didn't decrease in intensity. Thorin leaned into him, an unknown language caressing his skin in much the same way his lips would. Smooth, endearing words that Bilbo didn't fully comprehend but understood on some level. They were arranged in a way that seemed to indicate a sort of prayer, or vow, or petition. Thorin pressed the words into his skin before and after a new kiss, on his temple, at his neck, beside his lips. 

Thorin's fingers traced his body unhurriedly but deliberately. Bilbo could almost visualize the patterns he was tracing onto his bare skin; angular and sharp, proud and ancient. Maybe akin to the etches in the walls from his dreams. Bilbo gasped as Thorin's other hand, began to carefully pay attention to a very intimate part of himself. He clung onto the dwarf's upper arms as he continued to draw unseen patterns into his abdomen and pleasure him with his other hand. 

Bilbo hissed lightly at the overwhelming sensations Thorin was pulling from him. Thorin only leaned forward and continued his soothing chant in his ear. Bilbo closed his eyes and focused on the words, trying to imagine them written in stone, or outlined on bare skin. He leaned his forehead against Thorin's shoulder and relaxed into his spoken and written words.

Thorin again ceased all movement. The silence momentarily filled with Bilbo's involuntary whines as all hands were removed. Bilbo opened his eyes to follow whatever lead the dwarf would present. Thorin moved so that he was in between Bilbo's legs instead of beside them. 

Bilbo's thoughts halted as something pressed up against another very intimate part of himself. He yelped and reached down to stop all motion. "Thorin—" he said out of breath.

"You—idiot, at least," he gestured with his head to the nightstand. "The glass vial."

Thorin looked at him then to the glass container. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss on his forehead in-between apologies in two different languages. He reached past Bilbo to grasp the jar. Bilbo mumbled about it being some lavender cream and how he was sure it would work just fine. Thorin shut him up with another kiss before he very purposely poured the substance onto both of his hands and resumed his task, one hand deftly giving him pleasure and the other working poetry into his skin with lavender-smelling ink now. 

Finally, Thorin's hand moved down to the other intimate part of himself. Thorin was already leaning over him, whispering reassurances (now in a language he could understand), guiding Bilbo to relax. He did, offering up small kisses of his own to assure his lover that all was well. He gasped as the persistent pressure finally breached him, a thick finger coating the substance in and around him.

Thorin picked up where he'd left off with his dwarvish recitations, whispering them directly into Bilbo's ear as he took his time to prepare him. Bilbo wasn't sure how long this continued, but it was undeniably too long. Thorin had added one, and two more fingers. Bilbo was beginning to pick up on the different syllables and vowels of the language dripping into his ear. If they didn't continue on soon, Bilbo was ready to push him away and start taking notes on the language in his journal beside the bed. 

"Thorin," he tried to say in an exasperated tone, but his voice came out in such a breathy moan that he almost didn't recognize it. It must've been enough coaxing, however. Thorin responded by groaning, almost growling and then removing his fingers. On instinct, Bilbo hitched up his legs, trying to help with the angle. 

Bilbo watched him through his eyelashes as he prepared himself quickly and lined himself up. Thorin stopped to lean over and press his lips to Bilbos. It was again gentle and reserved, but Bilbo could feel the strain in his self-control, he'd been battling it all evening with varying degrees of success.

And then he was pushing in slow but relentless. Bilbo's breath was taken away at the stretch and burn. He clawed at Thorin's shoulders and let out a long wordless moan. The dwarf only stopped when he was completely in, allowing them both a moment to adjust. Bilbo found a more suitable angle, wrapping one leg around his waist as Thorin buried his face in the crook of his neck, dark hair hiding his face. 

He pulled out carefully and rushed back in. There was a gradual rhythm at first. Bilbo whimpered as he drew away and then mewled as he returned. A slow give and take between them. Thorin's hand sought his, threading their fingers together and pulled it above his head in the pillows before withdrawing from Bilbo's neck to stare down at him. The pace started to increase as they locked eyes with each other. Thorin's expression was so very focused that his usually bright blue eyes were almost entirely black with desire. Bilbo wondered again what Thorin saw when he looked at Bilbo. Especially now, in this moment.

  
  


With his other hand, Thorin reached between them to pay attention to Bilbo's need. This paired with the overwhelming push and pull was enough to send him completely over. He cried out and threw his head back as the feeling overwhelmed and drained him. He heard Thorin's comforting foreign phrases as he started to come down.

Bilbo relaxed, letting the aftermath claim him. Thorin's thrusts started to become shorter and harder, and with less of a sure rhythm. He grunted and groaned in an animalistic way. He could see that crack in the dwarf's control as he'd seen it several times before. However, it was never quite directed at him in such a consuming way. Bilbo swallowed dryly and tried to not be frightened.

The hobbit's name was on Thorin's lips, followed by a string of dwarvish endearments before he thrust two more times and then finished deep within him. Every muscle Bilbo was in contact with strained and stretched before Thorin joined him in his current listlessness. 

Bilbo yelped as Thorin's body weight briefly settled on him. He muttered a few unkind words to the dwarf and only got a chuckle as a response. Bilbo bucked upwards, the motion doing nothing to dislodge him. 

"Don't you laugh at me, you uncouth barbarian. So much for all your flowery and genteel words if you're only going to crush me like some clumsy beast—" Thorin was already rolling off him and succeeded in cutting him off by wrapping him up in his arms and pulling him close.

Bilbo made a few more seemingly discontent noises before settling in.

Bilbo's mind drifted on the edge of sleep. He was snug and secure with Thorin's arm wound tightly around him, pressing him back against the dwarf's chest. It was a tad too firm. The dwarf's fingers digging into his hip just a little too fiercely. 

Judging by the light snore in his ear and the gentle breath playing with his unruly locks, Thorin was genuinely asleep. The dwarf's lack of sleep had been a point of worry for him since he first heard Thorin wandering Bag End at night. So he forgave the harsh grasp on him and shimmied closer into his companion before the full blanket of sleep overtook him.

When he opened his eyes again, his home's warm brown walls were replaced with grey halls of stone. A loud sound like thunder echoed in the distance, accompanied by the violent shaking of his bedroom. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and grabbed one of the corner posts as the rumble continued.

He opened his mouth to call out to someone, but the name was stuck in his throat. He scurried to the grand doors as soon as he could get his footing. Cautiously, he opened one and peeked out. He saw the backs of dwarves running; whether it was towards something dangerous or away, he wasn't sure. Because the smoke and heat seemed to be coming from everywhere.

He pulled his sleeve to his mouth to cough dryly into the beautiful fabric. Looking down at his clothing, he quickly realized he needed to change and get out. He moved over to the wardrobe to find something he could move around in.

As he was pulling on a suitable pair of trousers to go with his tunic, the doors that he left a crack open burst all the way open. Fear struck him at the suddenness of it and at the tall, dark form that stood there. The stranger slowly turned as if unsure of why he came into the room. When the form put eyes on him, shocked recognition shifted his features. 

"Bilbo!" The crazed form with sword drawn melted down into a comforting, comprehensible dwarf as soon as his name was spoken.

"Thorin?" he said as he pulled tight his belt. "What's happening, what's going on?"

"Hurry! Grab your things," as the dwarf spoke, he was already gathering up Bilbo's sword and mail. "Put that on, quickly!"

Thorin pushed the chain mail at his chest and sheathed his sword at his belt. The dwarf then brushed by him in search of other items.

"Is there a fire? Thorin?" Even as he asked, he knew that it couldn't possibly just be a fire. There was always fire in the mountain. This was something else entirely.

Thorin returned from the wardrobe with Bilbo's travel bag and cloak. He pushed them at his chest.

"Bilbo, please, there is no time. Your mail shirt and then the cloak. Make haste!"

Bilbo frowned but swiftly did as he was told. As soon as he clasped his cloak at his collarbone, Thorin grabbed him by his upper arm. He begins dragging Bilbo out of the room, holding his sword up in front of them as they rush down the halls.

Battle cries mingled with other anguished voices as Thorin ushered him away. Bilbo kept slowing them down by trying to understand all he was seeing. Bilbo stumbled and lost his balance. He crumpled to the floor, or his body tried to, but Thorin kept him halfway upright. Thorin's other hand, the one holding the sword, somehow managed to also grab Bilbo's shoulder and pull him to his feet. 

Thorin sized him up before saying, "I'll carry you," he ducked in an attempt to put Bilbo over his shoulder.

"Oh, no, no, I am perfectly capable of walking."

Thorin's impatience was in full bloom on his face. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash on the hobbit presumably when an actual, thundering roar echoed around them. They both looked out over the open spaces between steps and bridges, seeing nothing at first. Gradually a thick cloud of smoke rose mere moments before the head of a dragon. A red, massive eye shifted to focus on them.

Thorin swiftly jumped forward, pushing Bilbo behind him.

"How long will the great king under the mountain run? When will he come out and face me?"

Bilbo shrank behind Thorin at the terrible voice, a voice he'd heard before in another lifetime. He gripped the back of Thorin's cloak, tugging on it, trying to convey the need for them to come away.

"..And what are you hiding? Show me, your master, what you hold dear." the dragon hissed smoothly, and even though he knew he was well hidden behind the large dwarf, Bilbo could feel the dragon's eyes on him. Bilbo trembled and hunkered down, fear overtaking him.

"I'll have your eyes first, worm!" 

He heard a shout from Thorin, followed closely by a shift in his weight and the strange sound of something large and fleshy being skewered. A roar infinitely louder than earlier shook the very ground beneath them. Bilbo pressed his palms to the rock beneath him to steady himself.

He was then unceremoniously scooped up from the floor in Thorin's arms. 

Bilbo looked over Thorin's shoulder to see the writhing form of a dragon with a sword sticking out of its eye. He shut his eyes at the sight and pressed his face against the dwarf's shoulder to try and banish it from memory. He heard frantic shouts and cries all around him as the inhabitants of the mountain either fought or fled. 

He pulled his face from the dwarf's furs and tried to find his voice and address him, but the mountain trembling sounds drowned out the meager pleas of the hobbit. Bilbo held fast to the dwarf, holding on for fear that Thorin would let him slip, and he'd fall into one of the many caverns and pits. 

Thorin slowed and turned a corner. The chaos from within the dwarrow halls suddenly sounded very far away. Thorin bent to gingerly set Bilbo down. They were in a narrow and quiet corridor, Bilbo recognized it, but he wasn't sure from where.

Bilbo whipped his head back towards the way they came at the sound of a furious dragon calling for the king under the mountain. Bilbo shuddered as the words seemed to vibrate inside his bones. 

"Bilbo, you must follow this hall and leave through the secret pass. Get as far away as you can."

  
  


Thorin then turned, reaching down to his side, where he had another weapon among the many at his belt. Bilbo recognized the look on his face. He surged forward, grabbing handfuls of Thorin's royal clothing, "No, you're not sending me away!"

  
  


Bilbo was angry-- furious at the very suggestion. The mountain was coming down around them, and an apparent escape was within their grasp. How dare Thorin get all noble at the final moment before they could be free from the fiery nightmare!

Thorin shook his head, but Bilbo interrupted him before he could go on. "What are you going to do? Face the dragon alone? Thorin-- no," and Bilbo tried to shake him, but his meager attempt only rocked his own frame.

"Bilbo," Thorin pleaded before taking a step forward and placing his forehead against Bilbo's. The gesture calmed his fury and stilled his begging. "I've put you in danger. I didn't know what I was doing-- forgive me," Thorin whispered.

Bilbo wanted to have him explain, but another far closer roar shook the hall and broke them apart. 

"I'll burn the heart out of you!" 

The threat was shortly followed, but the rush of hot wind and crackling of a fire. Acting quickly, Thorin threw Bilbo down the hall and away from the oncoming dragonfire. Thorin was engulfed by flames shortly after. Bilbo shouted, but his voice felt as if it had been burned from his throat. His back landed on the stone with an unceremonious thud, he knew he should stand and run, but the rush of fire was already upon him.

Bilbo sat up in bed with a desperate gasp erupting from his throat and an outstretched hand.

"Thorin!"

His shout seemed loud in the modest bedroom of his safe hobbit hole. His eyes bounced from one familiar object to the next, half expecting everything to burst into flames. He finally landed on the hunched form of Thorin's naked back, leaning forward at the corner of his bed. A myriad of confusion rushed to the forefront of his brain. Thorin was dead. No-- he'd shown up at his door several months ago. But also, he'd just watched him get swallowed in dragons fire.

No, that was a dream.

Why was he in his bedroom?

Bilbo dropped his chin to his chest and took into account his own body bereft of any clothing, and he remembered. Bilbo swallowed dryly and dragged a hand across his forehead.

"Thorin?" he asked gently, reaching out to him but not fully touching his bare skin.

A massive sigh poured into him and out again. "Did you see?" Thorin asked cryptically.

Bilbo pulled back his arm and quickly determined the meaning of his words: the dream.

Thorin shifted ever so slightly so that Bilbo was within sight of one eye. The stoicism Bilbo saw on his profile had him briefly wondering if this dwarf was the same one that held him so dearly just a few hours earlier.

Bilbo didn't reply. Whether it was fear of the reality or the coldness radiating from the dwarf-- he wasn't sure. He attempted to reach out again, lightly placing his hand on the other's shoulder and wanting to say something, anything to break this moment between them.

Thorin stood abruptly and gathered his discarded clothing in one swoop before trudging to the door. "Thorin. Thorin?" Bilbo feebly tried to stop him, but the dwarf kept going. He heard the rustling of clothing right outside his door; presumably, Thorin redressing himself, followed by the unmistakable sound of his heavy footsteps in large dwarfish boots headed toward the door.

At the sound of his front door opening and closing, Bilbo pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He curled in on himself as the real and unreal events shook him both physically and to his very core.

  
  


\---

Bilbo tried to not lay in his own confusion for much longer than necessary. He climbed out of bed, bathed, and dressed. He moved slightly slower than usual due to some lingering body aches from the activities the night before. 

Still, he went to the kitchen and began preparing breakfast for two as he'd been doing for the past few months. Six fried eggs with whatever morning meat Bilbo had in his larders for Thorin, and a couple for himself.

Bilbo stared at the prepared breakfast with his hands firmly around his teacup. He waited for the dwarf to return, but the hobbit-hole remained silent. And the longer he waited, the angrier he felt and the less hunger he had. Breakfast time came and went without any sign of his companion.

Bilbo spent the rest of the morning and afternoon, going from his hearth to the window, back to Thorin's room to check if his few things were still present, back to the window, to his tea kettle, and then back to the window.

All the while getting more and more frustrated with the confounded dwarf. He only calmed when a late afternoon nap took him in his armchair. It was a fitful rest, full of imagery of falling mountains and burning fields. He often awoke and, with sudden, almost violent spasms.

In his study, he was trying to write down his now numerous plaguing nightmares when he heard the familiar creak and swing of the large front door. Bilbo dropped his pen and scurried out to see Thorin. Almost simultaneously, Bilbo was relieved and again frightfully angry.

He propped his fists on his hips and tapped his foot impatiently as he watched Thorin slowly lumber in from the cold.

"And where, exactly have you been all day? And without," Bilbo sighed, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, "Without even a coat, Thorin? What was this all about?"

Thorin stood as still as stone before him. No nervous movement or the smallest sign that he should be ashamed of his actions. Only the slightest traces of sorrow could be found in his eyes as they returned the hobbit's accusations with silence.

"And wh-what was that all about this morning? Y-you leave with barely three words out of your mouth." Bilbo trips over his own words as they all rush out of his mouth to get to the dwarf first.

Bilbo takes a big step forward, pointing first at the dwarf and then at the floor as if anchoring both of them to the next question: " _What was that_? I know you saw it. I know it was you in my--"

In my head. In my dreams. In my nightmares.

"I warned you, Bilbo Baggins," Thorin's voice was soft and without malice.

"Warned me how? What do you mean?" Bilbo asked frantically.

"I'm cursed," Thorin stated as if the two words were the answer to everything strange they'd experienced since Thorin showed up.

All of Bilbo's previous questions were momentarily forgotten as he tried to identify the parade of emotions playing across the other's face. A twitch of his eyebrow, a tug at the corner of his mouth, a touch of fondness in his blue eyes as he regards Bilbo...

"And I'm a fool," Thorin hisses with a venom that makes Bilbo tense. "A fool to think I could tuck myself away from the world here and be rid of the curse." Thorin shook his head and trudged away from Bilbo, down the hall to his designated room.

"Wait— Thorin!" Bilbo yelped as he followed after him.

"Did you know this would happen?" Bilbo accused as he considered the implications. Thorin disappeared into his chambers, but Bilbo only followed him inside.

"Did you know that I'd be plagued by..by—"

What exactly were the visions?

Thorin looked up sharply. "How long?" he asked the desperation evident in his voice.

"How long wha—"

Thorin was back across the room too quickly for Bilbo to account for, grasping him by his shoulders and shaking him lightly.

"How long have you seen him? How long have the dreams been upon you?"

"I don't—"

"Bilbo, please, tell me!"

"Since the first week you arrived," Bilbo confessed.

"And you didn't think to tell me?" Thorin's eyebrows dropped low, betrayal painting his features.

Bilbo shook his shoulders and shrugged his hands off of him. He stomped his foot and pointed at the dwarf's chest, "I wasn't the one who was keeping secrets, Thorin. You show up as if invited for afternoon tea when everyone watched you get buried under a mountain. Oh no, no, no, no, don't you dare turn this on me. You've sulked in my halls long enough with your mysteries."

Thorin slowly stood up to his full height as Bilbo continued to berate him. His stature gradually unveiling the kingly, proud nature.

"So no, no, I didn't think it was important to tell you about a few pesky nightmares after having my dear dead friend show up for a season!"

An unnerving silence settled between them as Thorin scowled down at him, chin tilted up and shoulders back, every inch of him tense. Bilbo returned it with an unwavering glare, just waiting for the dwarf to continue to push things onto him or for him to finally explain what this was all about.

"This is all my fault," Thorin muttered, lips barely moving. He then turned and began to gather what little possessions he had, a few clothing pieces from Bilbo, his small bag, his cloak.

Bilbo watched in bewilderment before it dawned on him.

"What are you doing?" the words dripped out of his mouth before he could catch them. They were unnecessary because he knew what he was doing. He took several steps into the room as if getting a closer look would contradict his original conclusion. "Thorin, no. What are—"

"I must go," Thorin's voice boomed and bounced off the rounded walls; his words never meant to be contained under a hill.

Bilbo jumped at the volume, momentarily startled. His panic grew as he watched the last of the shirts he gifted to Thorin disappear into the bag. The hobbit didn't know which emotion he should favor: anger or fear. Anger that the dwarf was refusing to be open about his situation or fear that Bilbo could indeed be losing him.

Thorin worked quickly and stiffly as if he were the only one in the room. He slung the pack on his back, draped the cloak over his shoulders, and moved past Bilbo in long strides.

"Wait, Thorin!" Bilbo followed him out the bedroom door. He caught the dwarf in the hallway, almost to the green door. He threw himself on Thorin's arm and pulled back. "You stubborn, pig-headed, cold-hearted-- You do not get to leave. Not after I sheltered you and fed you and--" the sting in his voice faltered as he tried to quickly skim over the next few words, "and took you into my bed.."

Thorin whipped his head back towards him. His expression pained as if he were trying so hard to maintain the firm scowl on his face, but Bilbo saw the sparkle in his eye. The same desolation that Bilbo was feeling.

"Only to leave me with no answers and a shattered heart," Bilbo's voice again wavered, but this time it was over his own vulnerable confession. He felt the sharp sting of tears at his eyes and hastily blinked to scare them away.

As Bilbo's resolve faded, so did Thorin's. The tension in his body gradually lessened, and his eyes warmed with concern as he looked at Bilbo. He turned and pulled the hobbit into him, ducking his head to press their foreheads together. Hot tears started to pour down Bilbo's cheeks. He was grateful that, at least for the moment, Thorin was too close to see him weep, but the loud sniff surely gave him away.

"Forgive me, Bilbo," Thorin whispered, "I've been a great fool, and I put you in danger."

Silence filled the air between them with only the noise of Bilbo, trying to contain his sniffling and dry swallows. Thorin lifted his forehead away to look him in the eye. 

"I thought if there was anywhere, my curse would be banished, it would be here. And I assumed my burglar would be the least of his targets. A simple Shireling outside the lands of legend..."

Thorin lifted his lips to gently press them against Bilbo's forehead. "Alas, you're the most significant."

Bilbo angrily dabbed his sleeve at his cheeks and nose. As Thorin pulled away, he glared up at him, his face all red and damp from tears, but his eyes sharp. "What is this curse, Thorin?" Bilbo begged him to explain.

Thorin cupped Bilbo's jaw and caressed his cheek with his thumb, gathering up the tears in the movement.

"I do not know," he admitted. "Something evil awoke me and vows to curse everything I hold dear."

Bilbo swallowed dryly. "That's why you didn't go back to the mountain." He offered. Thorin looks away briefly, as if ashamed. He nodded in affirmation. "But you came here..."

Putting Bilbo in danger.

Another wave of anger rushes from within him. He wants to yell at the dwarf for being so damned selfish. To scream at him to consider the logic: Did he really think that staying in the Shire this 'curse' would go away. A curse so powerful that it could reverse death?

But the frustration came and went. Because the alternative to Thorin not coming here was Bilbo, never knowing that he lived. Bilbo would be painfully unaware during another solitary winter. Something he didn't realize was so very lonely till he shared it with the brooding, dark dwarf.

"Don't leave," he begged as he reached out to get a handful of anything to hold him still. He clawed at Thorin's clothing, trying to get a deep enough clasp. "Please, we can figure this out. They're just dreams-- please, Thorin."

"Bilbo," Thorin warned as he hitched his bag higher up on his back.

"Please, you can't just leave me here."

"I must," he said definitively as he reached down to pry Bilbo's hands out of his tunic. Bilbo only switched to his fingers, holding on as best as he could. "Bilbo, please," Thorin pulled his hands up and pressed his lips against his knuckles.

Bilbo sobbed loudly, all previous attempts to hold back abandoned as it was quickly becoming clear that he wasn't winning this quarrel with the dwarf. 

"Please. At least, wait one moment," Bilbo managed to say after two abandoned watery attempts.

Bilbo ducked his head and scuttled to his rooms. He found his very best handkerchief with his initials embroidered in the corner. He then swiftly went to the kitchen and gathered up his best meats, and bread, and even some of the longbottom leaf, putting them in a bag.

"You'll need these," he handed Thorin the bag of supplies before showing the handkerchief. "And something that I could hardly live without," Bilbo tried to laugh at the joke, but it came out stunted and dry. "A reminder to come back. I'll be needing this handkerchief at some point..”

Bilbo stood before the dwarf, head bowed, staring intently at his own toes and Thorin's boots. A hand reached under his chin and tilted his head up. Thorin appeared to be searching for something in his face. Perhaps, the right words to say.

"Promise me you'll return," Bilbo blurted, filling in the blanks for the dwarf. He didn't know the extent of the curse, and maybe he was demanding a promise that the dwarf couldn't hold to, but he had to hold onto something.

Thorin hesitated, clearly unsure if that was a vow he could hold to. Finally, he nodded. He took in a deep breath through his nose before wrapping his hand around the back of Bilbo's neck and pulling him forward, pressing their lips together briefly before, once again resting his forehead against Bilbo's and whispering, "I vow to return, amrâlimê."

Bilbo fought the urge to sink his fingers into the cloak and hold tight. He willed himself to stay still as Thorin pulled away, opened the green round door into the cold winter, and left Bag End. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I have a general idea where this can go but, currently, it can stand alone here.


End file.
